


The Last Time

by MaverikLoki



Series: A Comedy of Assholes (Rhapsody, etc.) [7]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, filth filth filth, incestuous infatuation, pray for my soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5566363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artemis Hawke is deeply in lust with the wrong man. A more reasonable choice doesn't help. Neither does the whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mevima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/gifts).



> For Mevima's birthday! This is her fault. Entirely. Mostly.

   
_This was it,_ Artie told himself. The last time. Once more, and then never again.

 

Maybe if Artemis believed it hard enough, it would be true this time.

It almost didn’t matter who was behind him. The hand on his nape, the sharp hips that slapped against his ass… they could belong to anyone, so long as Gantry didn’t ruin the fantasy.

"More,” Artie panted against the barn wall, the wood rough against his cheek.

Gantry obliged, the next shove of his hips rocking Artie up onto his toes, and Artie saw stars, bright, sparkling, and dazzling. “Like that?” Gantry growled behind him, grinding his hips in slow -– maddeningly slow-- circles. 

A mewl caught behind Artie’s teeth, but he wished Gantry wouldn’t talk. “Only if ‘more’ means something different in this part of Thedas,” Artemis said, focusing just enough to string those words together.

Gantry barked a laugh. Another jarring thrust, and Artie’s feet left the floor altogether as he bit off a needy sound, fingernails scrabbling at wood. “Just as demanding as your brother,” Gantry said, smacking one ass cheek.

Brother. And that was what Artie was determinedly not thinking about. Or determinedly thinking about not thinking about, which was difficult to do with Cormac’s lover – was that the right word? – fucking him through the wall. 

_Cormac_ . 

Cormac, who also knew what this knob felt like from the inside, who might have let Gantry have him up against this same wall. There was a thought, Cormac writhing and pleading right here, screaming in that way of his, a way that went straight to Artie’s knob every time.

But there was another thought Artie kept trying to tuck away. The thought of Cormac here  _with_ him, behind him, filling him up instead of Gantry.

A shameless sound left Artie at that, a moan that went down to his toes.

“That’s it,” Gantry panted, his pace breaking up the words. “Will you scream for me too?"

Gantry reached around Artie’s hip, caressing the soft skin he found there as he reached for Artie’s swollen knob, but Artie slapped his hand away. “Just shut up and fuck me.” Artie would be mortified at his behaviour later, but here, now, he  _needed_. 

And what he needed was to forget that the man behind him wasn’t the one he wanted. Gantry huffed a breath that could have been amused or offended, but he stopped talking, the hand on Artie’s nape sliding around to grip him by the throat, squeezing with just enough pressure to wring another desperate sound out of him.

Pleasure coiled hot and electric at the base of his spine,and Artie thought:  _maybe_ . Maybe this time his magic would behave and he could let go. But he could feel it there, pooling in the pit of his stomach, trickling down to tingle in his toes, in the tips of his fingers. That trickle would become a flood if he didn’t keep a tight hold, and he tried, oh he  _tried_ , but he could feel it slipping, could feel it spilling out with each shove of Gantry’s hips.

“Oh fuck,” Gantry panted, hips shivering as he pressed himself as close to Artemis as physics would allow. “ _Fuck_ , Artie.” 

And Gantry’s voice was like ice water, reminding him, again that this wasn’t Cormac squeezing his throat and ploughing him into the wall.

A few more tight, frantic thrusts, and Gantry shoved in deep, pulsing inside of Artemis with a long, liquid moan.

Artie  _ached_ , his knob purple with need, but he didn’t dare touch himself. He slapped Gantry’s hand away again when he tried.

Gantry sighed against Artie’s shoulder as he pulled out, leaving Artie feeling gaping and empty. “Does this always happen?” he asked, pulling his pants up back over his hips. “I know a good herbalist who might be able to help.”

“What?”

“With your… issue.” Gantry gestured at Artie’s still swollen knob before it disappeared down Artie’s pants. “We’ve done this, what, four, five times now, and you haven’t come once. That can’t be healthy.”

“What does it matter to you?” Artie asked, flushing up to his roots. “You got what you wanted out of it, didn’t you?”

Gantry shrugged. “ _I_ have no complaints. But—”

“Good. Then we’re done here.”

Gantry gave him an incredulous look before throwing up his hands. He didn’t stop Artemis when he pushed open the door.

 

Artie wobbled home hours later, still smelling of sweat and sex under the stink of whiskey. Trying to drown out his thoughts just got him piss-drunk, but at least he couldn’t feel the ache in his knob any more…possibly because he couldn’t feel his anything. His shoulder bumped the doorway on his way in, and Artie paused to apologise to it before staggering towards his room. 

The house was asleep, thank the Maker. The last thing Artie wanted or needed was his father making concerned faces and lecturing him on the dangers of public drunkenness. Again.

“I know, Dad,” Artie mumbled as though Malcolm were there. And he  _did_ know. He just didn’t care.

Artemis didn’t find the bed so much as fall onto it, Cormac still peacefully asleep as Artie wriggled and jostled the bed. Moonlight highlighted the curve of Cormac’s jaw, the shape of his lips. Artie wondered what they’d feel like against his.

And that? That train of thought was precisely what he’d been drinking to avoid. Artie turned onto his side, his back to his brother. It was safer to not look at him, but he could still feel Gantry when he shifted a certain way, the hollow ache in the shape of his knob, his dried spend on Artie’s thighs. And this was something he hadn’t counted on, drinking to forget all the terrible things he wanted his brother to do to him, only to settle in, surrounded by his scent.

Artie squeezed the growing bulge in his trousers. Regret was something he should feel – would feel –  _had felt_ – but not right now. Right now, his thoughts were as hollow as the ache in his insides, drowned out by drink and his pulse, the heavy heartbeat he could feel more in his dick than in his chest.

Artie was vile. He was a loathsome, sick man for wanting this, for wanting the spend on his thighs to be his brother’s –  _his brother’s_ – and for wanting Cormac to pour more down his throat. Artie wondered how he tasted, if he would smell like oranges there too or like the leather trousers he always wore.

Artie’s own trousers were getting in the way. And so were the laces. Terrible things, laces, getting between drunkards and their knobs, but he managed to fumble them loose enough to push the waistband down his thighs.

And this? This was a bad idea, but Cormac would sleep through anything and Artie _needed_. Just a touch. Just enough to take the edge off. He promised himself he’d stop before any earthquakes. Artemis had to calm himself enough to cast a grease spell, cursing when it spilled out down his wrist, but he got enough on his hand to stroke his knob to a glistening shine.

And – there. That felt  _good_ , the wet rub of a thumb over the head. Eyes closed, Artemis could pretend someone else was touching him, someone who wouldn’t mind any errant magic. Cormac’s hands were rougher than his, squarer, but talented. He would know exactly how to touch Artemis.

“ _Oh_ ,” Artie sighed, letting his head fall back as he rocked into his fist. A desperate groan slipped past his lips before he could stop it. And maybe Artie should have finished himself off in the woods before all the drinking, far enough in where he could shout whatever name he liked

That was, perhaps, more than ‘a touch’, but Artie didn’t slow. Instead, Artemis prodded at his still raw hole, the pads of his middle and ring fingers circling the sensitive edges, and again Artie thought of a squarer, rougher hand. 

" _You open so well for me, little brother,”_ Artie could hear him say. Those fingers pushed in and curled. _“So hot and soft and perfect.”_

That hand wrapped around him for real then, or at least around his waist, and Artie froze as Cormac hummed in his sleep, pulling Artie back against him and trapping one arm between them.

Cormac’s hands on him, Cormac’s breath in his ear. He shouldn’t, oh he shouldn’t, but his knob twitched in his grip, no less interested. More interested, even. He pushed his fingers in to the last knuckle.

“More,” Artie breathed, the word barely a sound at all. 

_An affectionate laugh, a knowing smirk. “More? More of what? I can’t possibly imagine.”_

Artie bit his tongue against a strangled sound of frustration. Outside of the fantasy his brother was asleep and needed to stay that way. “More,” Artie mouthed into the dark. “More of you.  _Please_.”

" _Need your big brother to take care of you, Artie?_ ” 

And oh, how Artie wished Cormac would talk to him like that.

Those fingers pulled out, and Artie whimpered. His body trembled with need, with anticipation, as he pictured Cormac settling behind him, his own knob in hand. Artie wanted to say his name so badly. 

A heartbeat, two heartbeats, three… and four fingers replaced two. Artie pictured Cormac’s knob shoving in instead, and he bit off a sound, the quasi-black behind his eyelids sparking. 

He should stop. He’d meant to stop. He’d been expecting the trembling when it – and he – came, but for once this was an earthquake he only felt in his bones, rippling out from the core of him as he shot out over his hand. Muscles bunched, toes pointed, and eyes rolled back as sparks shivered up Artie’s spine.

Muscles uncoiling, Artemis relaxed back into his brother’s arms, one hand still wringing the last drops out of his knob. Despite the liquid happiness in his bones, guilt slammed into his gut.

His brother. His  _brother_. He’d not only made a mess, but he’d come all over the bed they shared, with Cormac pressed to his back. Maker have mercy.

Cormac cuddled closer, throwing a leg over Artie’s shin and nuzzling behind his ear. Artie couldn’t move without waking him, not even to pull up his trousers, and for a while he stared into the dark, trying to figure out what to do. 

Tomorrow. He would deal with all of this tomorrow, when he was sober and his headache would make him want to murder something anyway.

“This is your fault,” he whispered to his brother, squeezing Cormac’s hand and pulling the blanket over them both.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Last Time by Maverikloki](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649703) by [mevipodfic (mevima)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevipodfic)




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